


Taraxacum

by Tinybookworm



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Flowers, Historic episode, These two have massive crushes on each other they just don't know it yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 17:43:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinybookworm/pseuds/Tinybookworm
Summary: The story behind the flowers in their hair. Set during Demons of the Punjab.





	Taraxacum

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read any stories of the flowers so I thought I would write my own. If u have, apologies andI would love to read it!
> 
> Alternatively titled; 'in which we are all Yaz, as we also get turned on by the Thirteenth Doctor's hands'

It felt like a dream. A wonderful, Middle Eastern dream, where the weather is warm and hills wind beautifully. Yaz feels like candy floss, which makes no sense, but nothing makes sense with the Doctor and it’s beautiful.

_The Doctor is beautiful,_ Yaz muses as they sit in the barn. She watches as the Doctor sits in awe looking at her hands, turning her them over slowly and inspecting the design like a child had discovered something miraculous, something alien. _They are_ , Yaz remembers. The way the Doctor uses the fingers of her left hand to trace the lines of her right palm, fingers softly mapping the creases of her forefinger, down down down stopping at her wrist and wandering round; tickling the delicate bone that holds her thumb in place; that makes her so wonderfully human. Except she isn’t, a voice warns. Yaz ignores it. She wishes it was her fingers exploring, teaching the Doctor simplistic ways to be human.

She also wants to hold her hand. And use hands in other ways. Hands are lovely and very useful.

“Yaz!” The Doctor cries, but happily. She is never anything other than pure and _so happy._   
“This is brilliant! Absolutely amazing! Can we do this more often? Not putting your timeline at risk and encountering aliens in the past… but _these_!?” The Doctor crawls towards her excitedly and thrusts her hands in her face. Yaz’s eyes are assaulted by two suns, palms apart. “Brilliant,” the Doctor whispers, entirely to herself, as she pulls back her hands to stare at the patterns, completely awestruck.

It’s only henna. A common stain made into art by better painters than herself. Yaz is reminded of her art lessons in school and how her teacher noted ‘Monet isn't threatened in the slightest’ on a piece of work. He was particularly horrid.  
“Yes,” Yaz whispers back, _of course, always, anything for you._ “We can do them whenever you like.” The Doctor beams and Yaz burns in the darkly lit barn. The candlelight flickers, like it’s smirking because it knows. How can it not know? Every aspect of human nature knows and mocks her. Even Ryan. Him and Graham have some sort of bet on.

Even the same, she’s glad the Doctor can’t see her blush in the lowlight; probably.

“Yaz Khan,” the Doctor says. That’s it. Her voice is honey and sweet and warm. The soft tone of her voice could appease French eighteenth-century ballroom dancers, and accompanied by a violin quartet, would make a rather lovely sound. Yaz is too busy melting to respond coherently, so the doctor looks at her to certify she's still breathing. She is, just.  
But then the Doctor’s eyes become soft and her face relaxes as she simply takes Yaz in. She feels the doctors eyes playing with her hair, the jewellery in her ears, her eyes, nose, lips-

“So!” Yaz coughs, because the room is air-tight all of a sudden and she's struggling to breathe. Nothing to do with the doctor scrutinising her, looking at her like _that_. “What shall we do until they get back?”

The Doctor looks back at her hands and shrugs. Yaz tries not to think about how her dejected gaze looks disappointed. The design on her hand that she had been so entranced by was not so beautiful anymore.  
“Dunno,” the Doctor replies. Her O’s are so Northern, so Yorkshire and so home. Home in a voice. Yaz didn't realise until now that she didn't need to travel to the Partition to connect so much with her family. It follows her in the TARDIS, it is epitomised in an accent. And a woman. Yaz cringes, _mum will have a field day with this_.

“Oo!” the doctor shouts and she's happy again. A power cut, just for a second. “Flowers! That’s what girls do isn't it? Flowers?”

The Doctor is a kite. An excitable, petite kite dressed in suspenders and pastel palettes. She weaves through the trees and bursts into the sky with such an energy that Yaz is trailing her heels in the ground just to keep a hold.

“What?” Yaz splutters. The barn glows brighter as the sun starts to appear. Soft morning glow fights to frame the Doctor’s hair. The blonde shines, bright like a star, in all directions. Yes, Yaz is aware she is looking at the sun.

“Flowers! And braiding, oh! Can I braid your hair? Actually, I forgot; I can’t braid hair. Never mind. Silly me! But flowers!”

The Doctor runs outside, coat swooshing behind her in the breeze she leaves. Daylight begins to flood the barn, but the candlelight holds power. _Not yet_ , Yaz begs the sun, _She’s not yours yet_. Yaz closes her eyes, she wants to remember this moment. A small barn, in India before all hell breaks loose, just her and the Doctor. Yaz reels in the kite string.

And the door bursts open again. “Look! Saw these earlier when I was running from the aliens.” The Doctor holds out a bunch of yellow flowers. Well… weeds. They’re Dandelions.

Yaz smiles so wide she thinks her face will rip in two. 

“They’re just Dandelions, Doctor,” 

“No Yaz, they’re pretty!” The doctor looks somewhat offended on behalf of the weed and Yaz rolls her eyes in good-humour. 

“You find them everywhere. Even in Sheffield.” 

“Plenty of pretty things in Sheffield,” The Doctor hushes in a whisper. And she's looking at the flower, but Yaz blushes all the same. The sun taps on the window again and the room is lighter now, soon the wedding and the partition. Who knows which will come first. Birds tweet a simple tune, one probably heard at dawn throughout history. Its simple and melodic, Yaz peers at the Doctor. She’s holding the Dandelions and twirling them in her hand, smiling to herself. Yaz coughs. Maybe she should pay a visit to the GP. 

“So, um, what did you think girls do with flowers?”   
The Doctor switches out of her trance. “This!” she says triumphantly, as if she knows all the secrets to the universe. _She probably does,_ Yaz thinks. Stepping forwards, the Doctor looks down at Yaz and personal space is a myth. The sun, impatient as always, shines brighter and Yaz sees the flecks of stars in the Doctor’s eyes as they’re illuminated. The doctor smiles softly, face a soft glow.

_I hate nature_ , Yaz thinks, _it has no right making her look even more attractive_. 

Then the Doctor lifts her hand, fingers gently tickling Yaz’s face, and then her scalp as she tucks Yaz’s hair behind her ear. Yaz melts; closes her eyes and exhales a heavy breath through her nose. She thinks she may have asthma. The Doctor carefully places a Dandelion behind her ear and steps back to admire her handiwork.

“What do you think?” The Doctor looks at her expectantly, and Yaz is reminded of a puppy.

“Yeah, it looks nice,”

“They symbolise the stars, moon and sun. All of space… in your hair!” the Doctor snorts, _such a comedian._ “It suits you,” the tone becomes more serious and Yaz notices it immediately. Her heart rate quickens. Heart-attack pending!

Yaz laughs nervously. “It’s just a weed,” she doesn't know what else to say. Her brain needs re-wiring, like when water spills on a keyboard and it messes with the entire computer. That’s how Yaz feels when she’s _this_ close to the Doctor.

“It’s beautiful,” The Doctor is staring straight into her eyes, the flower forgotten. Yaz feels herself lean in ever so slightly- 

“Also, it blooms every morning to say hi to the sun. Brilliant!”

Yaz wilts and smiles. A sad weed.

“Shall we match?” Yaz offers and it’s her conceding. Giving-up. She hands the kite reels over to the sun, the moon, the stars. _You can have her back now_ , she says to the universe, _thank you for letting me borrow her_.   
The Doctor nods enthusiastically and Yaz smiles as she steps on tip-toes to place a matching Dandelion behind the Doctor’s ear.

“What do you think?” The Doctor holds her hands by her ears.

“Great. Goes very well with your coat,”

The Doctor seems to like this and squeals excitedly. “Amazing. Yaz Khan, _amazing!_ ” The Doctor lurches forwards and grabs both her hands in her own. They are warm and soft and fit perfectly with her own, like a completed jigsaw puzzle. A moment of quiet, and then,

“Whatever happens today…” The Doctor begins but Yaz interrupts.

“-Is okay.” The Doctor look at her, concerned, but Yaz nods. “Really,”

The Doctor, seemingly satisfied, lets go of her hands and Yaz feels a slight chill. The sun is awake now and the room is bright. Yaz goes to inspect the Dandelions the Doctor had laid on the table and hears Graham talk of breakfast outside; time to face the music. The Doctor looks at Yaz, eyes full of hope and sorrow.

“You ready?”

A Dandelion is being disembodied by Yaz’s fingertips. Picking off the petals one by one she whispers _she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not…_

“Yes,” Yaz replies and it’s a promise in a three letter word. The Doctor nods and holds her hand.

_She loves me._ Like a Dandelion reacting to the sun, Yaz blooms.


End file.
